


build our own fortresses

by lalaietha



Series: Renegotiations of Fate [3]
Category: Valdemar Series - Mercedes Lackey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Tylendel Didn't Die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2011-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 21:30:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalaietha/pseuds/lalaietha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate beginning for the <i>Magic's Promise</i> time-period, in a universe where Gala still died, but Tylendel survived.</p>
            </blockquote>





	build our own fortresses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vae/gifts).



The knot in Tylendel's mind and soul, made of tension and wariness and sometimes terror that was mostly not his own, eased itself day by day as Van's travel brought him closer to Haven and further from the border. Further from the border, and so further from any demon, arrow, sword, assassin, poison, mage-attack or other Hell-spawn the Karsite priests might throw at him - well, some of the tension and terror was Tylendel's own. But most of it came from his lifemate and for now, Valdemar was unwinding him a bit.

Sometimes Tylendel found himself darkly grateful that he'd been no more than an indifferent dedicant to his parents' gods, and had left what remnant belief he might have possessed with a savaged white equine body and a broken mind, years ago. If not, he might have had a serious difficulty with the idea of any god at all allowing what the damn Karsites did. He shared enough of Van's moments of fear and enough of Van's nightmares, even split as they were between Haven and battlefield, to have a very good idea of everything the dispatches failed to tell. Every bloody, horror-drenched moment.

Which was why, in this last lull and momentary truce, Tylendel had suggested - well, "suggested" - that Randi bring Van home for a while. A long while.

Of course, by the magic of court gossip and the way it could travel by birds and the very air, less than a week after the order had been sent a letter had come from Forst Reach. Tylendel hadn't opened it, but the traces of Withen Ashkevron's sense of entitlement to his son's time and attention had been soaked into the paper. It meant he didn't _need_ to open it to know that when Van did, he'd make immediate arrangements to visit his parents.

As such, Tylendel had arranged for it to be carried back to one of the outposts and "accidentally" sent back to Forst Reach. It should arrive in a day or two, and then Withen would have to send it again.

Van would still go. Of course he'd go, because Vanyel, love him dearly though Tylendel did, was an idiot in the way his family still kept hold of him. But it would be after at least a week in Haven, with Tylendel, and not fresh from the border and all its miseries - which would in turn have made him that much more likely to accidentally paint the bathhouse with someone's innards, or turn an aggravating cousin into a crater. Van fresh off any battlefield was a Van it could be exciting to sleep beside.

 _He'd go, though,_ Tylendel thought, finishing encoding his message in the idle chatter of an otherwise unimportant letter, folding it and sealing it. _Exhausted and hair-triggered._

Tylendel's office had two windows, but one of them was a skylight. It sat buried in the Palace, near - but not too near - King Randale's quarters. Tylendel kept it compulsively neat because he had to: there wasn't enough room for anything else. But his desk and chair were extremely comfortable, his candles and lamp-oil were the best, and all in all he was fond of it. And only a certain kind of person knew it was there.

The letter went into the basket that would be taken by some page to the letter-carriers. Tylendel capped ink, cleaned pen, locked drawers (in which there was absolutely nothing of value or interest, but it might entertain some would-be spy long enough for Savil to feel the broken wards and come), blew out lamps and locked the little cupboard office behind him.

Officially, Tylendel headed a division of clerks. Unofficially, people called them "the grey clerks", known to be one step below his ministers and thus essential to the running of the capital and the kingdom. This gave them every excuse to attend most functions, and made them politely invited guests to many others - a friendship with a grey clerk could get you favours, move you higher on someone's priority list.

Unofficially, of course, the word "spy", "spymaster" and sometimes "assassin" was more appropriate. Tylendel felt that sometimes Randale hadn't made peace with the idea of employing covert agents yet, but he had inherited Elspeth's extremely well-organized shadow-cabinet - Tylendel included. As yet, it simply operated around him, without needing him to come to terms with the darker aspects of necessity.

"Darker". As he made his way back to the rooms he and Van shared whenever Van managed more than a few hours in Haven, Tylendel's mouth quirked with wry amusement. He knew many of his counterparts, in Rethwellan, in Hardorn, even knew who in the Temple did as he did in Karse: and he knew that compared to them, Valdemar was an innocent holder's-daughter among courtesans. And right now, there was a remarkable sense of quiet.

Tylendel didn't trust it, but it didn't mean he wouldn't take advantage of it. And unlike Vanyel, if Randale found something that Van might be able to do but which did not, in fact, require him - in that most absolute sense of require - _Tylendel_ could say _no_ , emphatically, on his lifemate's behalf. And would. And had done before.

 _Heralds are made stupidly selfless by nature, design and training_ , Tylendel had said to Savil only just the night before, laying most of the plans he had (and the fact that he had sent back Withen's letter) before her. _I'm not a Herald. I just look after them, and do the things you can't._

Savil had left that alone. Tylendel could make black jokes that touched, ever so lightly, on Gala's repudiation and death, but he remained the only one. Savil ignored them; Van gave him troubled looks; and the rest of the Circle pretended they didn't know what he was joking about, and ignored their ambivalence to his own ambiguous status, once-trainee, once-favourite, now . . . something else, and lifemate to their precious star. The duties of the grey clerks and the white-clad Chosen Heralds' often overlapped. It only made them more uncomfortable.

Some part of Tylendel found amusement in that. The rest of him it only saddened sometimes.

He waylaid one of the servants when he got to his and Van's wing and had food sent to their rooms. Mostly light, fresh bread and fruit and cheese: Tylendel was well acquainted with how Van's body handled its stresses, never mind the quiet, back-of-mind awareness of the lifebond that only reinforced what he knew. The Vanyel coming through the door would be worn thin and prone to rejecting anything too heavy or too inconveniently nourishing. Better to start with easier food.

Then Tylendel built up the fire, selected a book and waited.

 

Vanyel knew that Lendel was waiting. There wasn't any way he could _not_ have known, lifebond and Mindspeech and Empathy and everything that stretched between them - which was nearly everything, except for Tylendel's burned out Mage Gift. So he knew. But they had long ago found that reaching towards each other in reunion tended to end with both of them agitated and unsettled by the time they managed to find themselves in the same room; better just to leave it. To be patient, and let things unfold at the right moment.

That struck Vanyel in many ways as the story of their lives, or at least their lives together. Though honoured more in the terrible warning of the breech than the observance.

So it wasn't until he had pushed open the door to their suite and unceremoniously dropped his saddlebags, pack and lute-case on the floor (unfair to the lute, but he felt far too tired to care) that Vanyel reached out with his mind to his lifemate, or that Lendel reached back.

More or less in the same moment, Lendel looked up from the long padded couch. He looked Vanyel up and down while putting his bookmark back and said, matter-of-factly, "You look absolutely terrible, peacock. Come here."

Vanyel shook his head, some retort about Lendel's compliments just barely eluding his too-tired mind, lost underneath more bitter comments. He elected to forget about it and cross the room to sprawl over the remaining space, head resting on Lendel's shoulder, with as little ceremony as he had dropped the bags on the floor.

He felt Lendel's mind moving against his, through memory and some thoughts, negating the need to speak out loud about the past months and enveloping Vanyel's thoughts in the peculiarly prickly comfort of Lendel's own at the same time.

Vanyel felt the moment Lendel stumbled over a particular memory, and grimaced slightly as the arm Lendel had around his shoulders moved under the cloth of Vanyel's shirt to touch the claw-made scars.

"I thought I felt that," Lendel said, quietly. "Savil's going to have three litters of kittens."

"I've seriously contemplated not telling her," Vanyel said, without much conviction. He realized he thought he could feel his own skin crawling with the need of a bath, and sighed.

"Good luck with that, ashke," Lendel replied, dryly. And catching the edge of Van's thought, he said, "You can bathe after you've eaten, and I'll come with you. Otherwise I'll find out you drowned in the tub when the rest of my brain rips itself apart."

The edge in Lendel's voice made Vanyel give him a quick glance; Lendel caught it, and caught Vanyel's move towards turning the examination back, blocking it. "Later, ashke," he said, firmly. "I'm not the one who's had bad food, no sleep and constant drain for the past year."

No - Vanyel caught the edge of thoughts, and kept his reply silent between them: _:No, just murders, attempted murders and -:_

Lendel flicked him between the eyes to cut him off. "I said _later_. When you've eaten three meals and slept more than five hours, then you can fuss at me."

"Fine," Vanyel said, giving up. "After I see Randale."


End file.
